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The air is knocked from my lungs, expelling a small gasp as his tall, lean frame threatens to melt me into the wall.
The rows of thick furs and expensive overcoats muffle our moans and sighs as we kiss, pawing at each other, pulling at clothes and skin.
I squirm under his touch as he lifts my dress to run his hand between legs, pushing my panties aside so he can feel how wet I am already. He groans into my mouth with satisfaction as I grind myself against his hand because I want more, and I want it now.
“Queenie,” he says, and moves to nip and kiss me through my dress. He pushes the strap down exposing my breast and he breathes heavily, drunk on lust, drunk on power, as he kneads my soft flesh with his hand before he bites down on my nipple – the pain sears through like the push of a button, causing heat to flood at my center and I hiss through my teeth.
Shame floods my veins as I crave the possession, the need to be owned. I breathe into his mouth as his lips hover over mine, the corners tugging into a smile. I yank his belt free and pop the button of his dress pants while he tugs my panties down roughly, each of us fighting to get to a place where he can be inside me.
“Oh God,” I pant the minute he pushes inside me, wide and deep without giving me a moment to adjust, and he’s thrusting into me, causing my ass and back to hit the wall roughly as his hips move at a speed that is driven by the need to fuck – the need to own.
All the pent-up frustration and lust that was abandoned in the Emerson exhibit sags inside of me with relief at finally being satisfied.
I can feel his muscles work under the crisp, expensive fabric of his dress shirt as he turns me around, lifting my dress over my ass and driving back into me while my cheek and palms press against the wall. Short bursts of air brush against the back of my neck as he whispers how good I feel, how I belong to him—the word mine causing my orgasm to start to crest.
His fingers dig painfully into my hips, pushing and pulling until everything is tight like a band. He reaches around to cup my breasts and then moves his hand under the slit of my dress to circle my clit. My stomach begins to quiver, and I know I’m gone, past the point of no return, broken in half by the pain and the pleasure as the orgasm grips me like a snake, squeezing until there’s nothing left to give, and the band breaks, sending me reeling.
The walls of my pussy grip his cock and he hisses, his thrusts shortening and the cadence slowing. He places a hand on the wall beside me, breathing heavily, his chest resting against my back, and I can feel the rapid beat of his heart as he sags against me. “You’re mine, Evan,” he rasps.
23
How A Bill Becomes A Law
Darren
“Goddammit, Darren!” Rausch shouts, his whole body shaking. Behind him is a half empty bookcase with law books leaning against each other, and a picture of him with my father when he was sworn in as Senator. The rest of the books are in boxes next to the desk.
“A fucking U.S. Senator!” he continues to yell, his cheeks turning red. “That’s a federal offense!” He shakes his head while breathing heavily.
Rausch has always been an intimidating man, but only to someone who cares what he thinks – which I don’t. Still, I can’t help but jump a little bit in my seat at the rumble of his voice. Now that his king is gone, what he will do?
“He won’t press charges,” I say smugly.
“There were witnesses. It could be out of your hands.” He throws his arms in the air but finally takes a seat at his desk, a pile of folders sits precariously at the edge, individual names written on each one.
“Are those candidates to replace my father?” I ask and narrow my eyes at the folders. Rausch scoops them up and tosses them to the side. My father’s seat can’t stay empty forever—Congress must go on—but I can’t help but scoff.
“That’s the governor’s decision,” I say, “until the term is up.”
Rausch pierces me with a heavy stare. “I don’t think you realize how long my reach can be.”
I have no doubt Rausch has influence in many places.
“Answer me this,” I begin and rest my forearms on the desk, “Rori Colton?” I laugh. “He took the Bar three times before he finally passed, and he’s been arrested for a DUI!”
“Every politician has a skeleton in their closet. You’ve been around long enough to know that, and the public has a very short memory.” He leans back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “And besides, at least he took the Bar, which is more than I can say for you,” he fumes.
I’ve made it my life’s mission to annoy the fuck out of him, and it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t recognize that as an accomplishment, because I sure as fuck do. The one thing that messed with my father’s psyche the most was the fact that I went to law school but never took the Bar.
Rausch sits back in his chair and assesses me, which is unnerving. “If you were three years older, I’d back you for your fathers’ seat.”
I laugh, but his face remains stoic. “You’re serious?
“You don’t think I have confidence in you?”
“No. I think you want someone to manipulate like you did with my father.”
Rausch laughs. “I don’t think you knew your father at all.”
